the country at Scamperley--and, after
all, it was not my doing, and consequently not my fault.

I wonder why it is that, in the very convenient code of morality which
the world has adopted for its private use, places and people should so
completely alter facts. You may do things with impunity in London that
would destroy the character of a Diana in the country; and, again,
certain rural practices, harmless--nay, even praiseworthy--when
confined to a picturesque domain, if flourished before the eyes of the
metropolis, would sink the performer to the lowest depths of social
degradation. It is not what you _do_ that matters one whit, but what
the world _thinks_ of your actions; and the gentlemen use a proverb
which I have often heard in connection with certain racing enormities,
that "One man may steal a horse, while another must not even _look at
a halter_:" and if this be the case with that sex who arrogate to
themselves the exclusive privilege of doing wrong, how much more does
the adage hold good with us poor, weak, trampled-upon women? Lady
Straitlace may do what she likes: she assumes a severe air in society,
is strict with her children, and harsh with her servants. In all ranks
of her acquaintance (of course below that of a countess) she visits
the slightest dereliction from female propriety with unrelenting
bitterness. Woe be to the trespasser, high or low! The weapon is
always ready to probe and gash and lacerate; the lash is constantly
raised, "swift to smite and never to spare." But who would venture to
speak a word against the decorum of Lady Straitlace? If she goes out
in the dark, 'tis to visit a sick friend; if she encourages young
Antinoeus to be what ladies call continually "in her pocket," that is
only in order to give the lad good advice and keep him out of
mischief. Major Ramrod is never out of the house; but what then? The
visits of fifty Major Ramrods would not entitle the world to breathe a
whisper against a person of such strict propriety as Lady Straitlace.
But how that same forbearing world indemnifies itself on poor Mrs.
Peony! It is never tired of shrugging its worldly shoulders and
raising its worldly hands and eyebrows at the sayings and doings of
unfortunate Mrs. Peony.

"Did you hear of her going to the bachelors' ball with three gentlemen
in a fly?" (Nobody thinks it worth while to specify that the three
Lotharios consisted of her grandfather, her husband, and her nephew.)
"Did you see he